


your glass so full it's tipping over

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:39:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Opening night can’t come fast enough.





	your glass so full it's tipping over

**Author's Note:**

> happy 10/12 <3

Taiga’s not getting flashbacks to last June. The last time he and Tatsuya had played officially was near the end of a long season, game six of six in a dragged-out playoff series with overtimes and physicality and the brutal, accumulated fatigue of having played nonstop since the end of September. Sore muscles were extending past their limit; the knowledge that no matter what they’d all be home in a few weeks pushed them all onward. The bulls had won, up against the buzzer while Tatsuya’s teammate had thrown an airball, and for half a second Taiga had thought about what a shitty ending it was for them.

They’ve played since then, on street courts and in driveways and stale, sweaty gyms; it’s always been one on one and that’s always special. But it hasn’t been a rematch of this, four guys lining up behind each of them, coaches and minutes and other people’s strategies, tens of thousands of people in the crowd. The NBA is another level, or really, another dimension. It’s that way by itself, but against Tatsuya, that’s the reason they’re playing ball in the first place.

Opening night can’t come fast enough; time’s been crawling against the current since the preseason ended but Taiga knows once he’s with Tatsuya it’ll speed up, contract and then vanish into the final buzzer piercing the air. Three more, and maybe seven after that, and that’s the season in terms of the two of them meeting under the basket.

Time dilates, though, in unexpected ways. Not when the Knicks fly in and Tatsuya lets himself into Taiga’s apartment in the early evening, mouth dry from the flight and letting his weight sag against Taiga’s body, not when they’re making out lazily on the bed. But when Tatsuya’s teammate texts him to come and meet some of the guys downtown—yeah.

Taiga’s pinky rests on Tatsuya’s knee; every few seconds he glances over (or maybe it’s more often, hard to tell with the time and the two very strong drinks in him). The shadows on the bar do plenty of unnecessary favors to Tatsuya’s face, though Taiga would rather see more of it. All of it, in the light, pushing his hair back from his face and kissing his mouth—

“You okay?”

Tatsuya jostles his knee under the table, touch warm. Taiga inhales sharply.

“Damn, dude. He really can’t hold his liquor.”

“Yes, I can,” says Taiga.

Tatsuya laughs; he squeezes Taiga’s knee and leaves his whole palm there, resting gentle like the alcohol in Taiga’s stomach. Taiga’s face burns, seared like the half-decent steak they’d ordered from the bar what seems like hours ago (he and Tatsuya can do better at home; they have, only recently, barbecuing back in LA, charcoal smoke in the air).

Tatsuya flags down the bartender for another drink, matching Taiga’s center ounce for ounce and proof for proof. He doesn’t need to, but Taiga’s sick of arguing and he’s missed seeing a different kind of competitive fire on Tatsuya’s face. Nothing personal, but he makes everything personal, internalizes this scorching need to be the best and drink everyone else under the table, leave no doubt and nothing left unproven.

“Chill,” says Taiga. “We got a game tomorrow.”

“I’ll win it,” says Tatsuya, downing another shot of tequila, no chaser.

* * *

Taiga wakes up fine but Tatsuya wakes up hungover, another reminder that they’re not twenty-three anymore. As if the aches and pains from what’s supposed to be normal practice weren’t reminder enough. Tatsuya still manages to call a cab and haul his unsteady ass to an expensive brunch place (more ridiculous than half the places he’s taken Taiga in fucking New York) where he gets a huge, greasy breakfast and peers at Taiga from behind his sunglasses like a socialite. (Taiga’s breakfast is equally huge and greasy, but that’s normal and he’s not sick and swaying on his feet.)

“You’re paying for this,” says Taiga.

“Of course,” says Tatsuya.

(He doesn’t order any alcohol, which is a small victory on its own—only coffee and several glasses of pulpy orange juice, which Taiga has to admit does taste fresh-squeezed.)

It’s gone by the evening—it’s gone before then, when Tatsuya sits still and steady on Taiga’s lap, daring him to make a move, and Taiga hates how he can’t keep up the tension and inch closer to Tatsuya, can’t help but smashing their faces together but it makes Tatsuya laugh and kiss him back, lean in closer before he’d bargained for. But on the other side of the tipoff, Tatsuya’s eye looks sharp. And he’s happy. Obviously he is, but it shows on his face, subtle but definitely there, and it sparks Taiga into overdrive and pushes him forward before the ball even leaves the ref’s fingers.

Tatsuya’s not playing hungover, either; he’s playing better than he has all summer. He never saves anything up for later; there’s never any I-might-need-it; it’s here, now. It’s like when their eyes met, the same thing had happened to him, the floodlights inside of Tatsuya turn on and now he’s burning as bright as the sun. Taiga would believe that; he does believe that. He jumps, but Tatsuya’s already jumping, there to block; there’s no whistle because it’s too far to be goaltending (even with the overreach of NBA refs), only the sting of losing this head-to-head.

It’s Tatsuya’s ball next, slowing the game, dribbling up the court while wildly signing with his free hand faster than Taiga’s seen ASL translators do a motormouth monologue—he looks left, right; they’re set up and the passes go faster than the signs; the crowd reacts. It’s pure fucking showmanship; it’s totally Tatsuya—Taiga tries to stab the ball out of the air with his hand but they’re too quick; they anticipate him; he’s almost there, but it’s Tatsuya, inches away, with his hands on the ball, daring Taiga to steal it back.

Tatsuya dribbles fast, but this is really just a fancy one-on-one, a huge stage with fancy costumes on top of the same competition they’ve both won so many times the value’s converged. Taiga darts in, pulling the ball back in and driving past Tatsuya, skin barely centimeters from skin. He’s all alone on the other end, and Tatsuya’s not the only one who can showboat. Taiga jams it in and hangs on the rim. Forget sparks, he’s started a cannon of a generator. So does Tatsuya.

And they’ve still got three-and-some more quarters, maybe more.


End file.
